The Snow Tribe
by Alexandra Spar
Summary: Work in progress. What if Jack hadn't made it to the top of the mountain?
1. Default Chapter

The mountain hadn't seemed so terrible, from the plains. Even when the cold had begun to bite through his kimono, turning every little graze from the granite outcroppings into a frozen pain, he had thought it was possible. The goat-men had represented very little challenge to his skill; the climbing itself had not been that difficult, despite the iced-over stone and the rigid nature of his sandals. But now, shivering helplessly in the depths of a blizzard, completely alone except for the fading footprints of the mountain monks, Jack felt the first shadows of a doubt.

It didn't help that he could hardly see through the whirling snow, nor that the dim pain in his chest he'd attributed to the growing altitude had developed into red-hot iron bands restricting his breathing; he was beginning to feel dizzy with the pain. Blinking the tousled hair out of his eyes, Jack sighed and started, once more, to climb.

The mountain monks had said that _truth_ lay atop Mount Fatoum. That had been good enough for Jack, several thousand feet below. Truth as a philosophical abstract seemed less important as he climbed higher and higher, gasping in the rarefied air; he'd settle for warmth and food, and possibly some bandages. Aku seemed nothing more than a horrible dream, a thing of the warm plains below; there was nothing of the dark wizard in these frozen steeps, unless you counted the complete lack of mercy the weather and the mountain itself was showing him. Perhaps they'd been right to say that no one could ever scale Fatoum; perhaps it had been presumptuous of him, dishonourable even, to assume that he could be the first to succeed. 

He reached a ledge, gasping, his chest burning with the too-thin air, and slumped to his knees. The summit was still miles away, lost in the stormclouds, and he was already feeling the shaking weakness of total physical exhaustion. It was ridiculous. It was only a _mountain_. He'd come close to defeat before, but only at the hands of Aku's robot minions, and only when the odds were almost insurmountable. 

Jack shuddered, so cold he'd stopped feeling the cold at all; he was dizzy with the altitude and the pain in his chest, and the mountain itself seemed to sway in and out of focus, as if he was falling away from reality once more. Shaking away the sensation, he struggled to his feet once more and began to climb. All around him the storm was worsening. He thought vaguely that perhaps the mountain-spirits were angry with him for daring to challenge Fatoum; it would explain the abominable snowmen and the rock-monsters that had been showing up with alarming regularity as he reached ever higher.

It would do no good to wonder, he told himself firmly, and set his body to climb once more. 

From a distance the samurai was indistinguishable from the snowfields he was struggling through; the only thing that stood out in the whirling white was the blowing shock of his hair, blacker than anything that the mountain normally saw. He was a tiny mote of white in a world of white. It was difficult to remember that this was indeed the hero who had come so close to defeating Aku so many, many times; the man whose deeds were legend down on the plains, who had freed the slaves of the Dome of Doom and taught the tribes of the forest apes to protect their villages. He looked like a man at the end of his endurance. 

The watchers who had followed Jack up from the foothills of Mount Fatoum kept their distance, waiting for the samurai to fall. They had seen many heroes attempt the climb, of course, and to give Jack credit, he had made it further than anyone else they could remember. It was clear he had very little left to give, and the watchers found themselves waiting curiously to see just how far he could make it before his body gave up altogether. 

The samurai had long ago lost his sandals in the depths of the snow; he could hardly feel his fingers or toes as they struggled for grip on the ice-covered rock. The tatters of his robe blew around him like shreds of the stormclouds he was climbing through. His vision had faded to a dim unfocused view of the far-off summit, unchanging, unreachable; the pain in his chest made it impossible to breathe except in little gasps. Black, frozen blood stiffened his robe in a hundred places; his mouth and nose were caked with ice. There was nothing left except Fatoum. Aku was gone; his long-ago parents were gone; the cherry-blossom drifts of his home were nothing more than shreds of memory. 

He reached up one more time, clutching at the mountain, and again, and then there was simply nothing left; his fingers closed on the ice, slid open again, as his body went limp at last. There wasn't far to fall before he landed on a snow-covered ledge, and he was already unconscious when the watchers materialized out of the snow all around him, staring down at the limp form of their mountain's challenger. 

********

Jack woke slowly, blinking away dim visions of whirling snow and helpless exhaustion, and found himself staring at a low roof of stretched hide in the light of an oil lamp. He blinked, wondering what sort of hallucination the cold had brought on, and as the pain of his wounds came back in a sudden sick rush, realized he was no longer dreaming. He sat up suddenly in shock, gasping, and then wished he hadn't; the pain in his chest was worse, and it was difficult to breathe.

Something rustled nearby. Jack glanced over, noticing that the shelter, or tent, was supported by poles that looked a great deal like gigantic ribs. The tentflap was drawn aside, and a muffled figure came in, shaking blown snow off its garments. Jack watched with some trepidation as the newcomer unwound layer after layer of fur from its face, laying aside the wrappings, and turned to him.

She was very dark, windburned the colour of milky coffee; her hair was as dark as his own, and her eyes slanted at the corners in a familiar way. Moving as silently as the mountain-monks had done, she came over beside his bed and sat down, gently pushing his shoulders back down to the pillows. "Rest," she said, in a dialect Jack was vaguely familiar with. "You have much recovering to do."

"Where am I?" he rasped, his throat rough with pain. "All I remember is the mountain."

"You are in the camp of the Akhari," said the woman. "We are the people of the mountain. This is our domain; all who pass through it are watched by our scouts. We found you near the summit two days ago." She reached out and smoothed Jack's tumbled hair away from his face. "You've been very ill."

He closed his eyes, the dizziness coming back in a wave. "I have failed," he muttered, coughing. "Your mountain has defeated me."

The woman's voice held a smile. "Fatoum defeats all her challengers. Only the Akhari, we who are born here, have ever reached the summit. Do not be ashamed. Your efforts brought you farther than any other stranger in our memory."

Jack looked at her steadily. "What of the mountain monks?"

"They turned back long before you. Our scouts saw them reaching the plains last night." 

"Even with their training?" he asked. "They had none of the difficulty I remember."

"Nor did they have your determination," said the woman. "What is your name, stranger?"

"Jack," said Jack, and coughed again, more painfully. She nodded, wiping sweat away from his face. 

"I am Aoi," she said. Reaching down to a low table by the fur-covered bed, she handed him a cup carved out of a goat-man's horn. "Drink this, and rest. Your fever has only just broken."

Jack took the cup, too weary to argue, and drank off the contents; it was hot and faintly peppery, and eased a little of the pain in his chest. She took the horn-cup back and rose, swathing herself once more in her furs. He was already too deep to notice when she came back to the bedside and stood looking down at him for a long moment before leaving the tent again.


	2. dreams

He woke again, this time prepared for the dim smell of burning oil and the far-off sound of the wind. Aoi wasn't there; he lay alone in the hide tent. The supports _were_ ribs, he noticed; he'd wondered about that in his feverish daze, and now found himself wondering what animal grew so large up here in the frozen wastes that the Akhari could use its ribs as tentpoles. Some of the monsters he had fought on his climb up here had been large, but none as large as these bones implied. 

The pain in his chest was no worse, which he took as a positive sign. Years of adventuring in snowy wastes and bright deserts had taught him what recovery felt like, and he knew the mountain tribes' medicine had almost cured him. Nevertheless, he also knew just how close Fatoum had come to killing him. His breath still rattled like dry bamboo.

He looked around for his sword, and was relieved to see it lying atop his carefully-folded robes on the chair by his bed. There had been a bad moment where he'd thought he'd lost the sword for good, falling helplessly past it in the whirling snow. He couldn't count the times the sword had saved him. Couldn't imagine going on without it. It was, after all, magic; it sliced through Aku's robot soldiers as if through butter, didn't lose its edge on the granite outcrops of the mountain, and somehow always found its way back to him. 

He stared up at the billowing roof of the tent, and wondered about the people who had brought him here. What did the Akhari know of the truth, the power, that waited atop their mountain? Had they already found it, and hidden it somewhere safe from marauders? Surely they knew something of the legend that had brought him here, of the truth of Mount Fatoum.

Jack sighed and sat up, pushing back the furs. He wore nothing but a ragged cotton shirt over his undergarment; his wounds had been bound carefully with what looked like strips of someone's robes, hopefully not his own. He could hardly feel the pain from them anymore; perhaps people healed more quickly this high up, this close to the gods. 

He slipped out of bed and pulled on his kimono, which had been carefully mended with tiny stitches everywhere it had been slashed. He was vaguely grateful to the seamstress, although he wondered who among the Akhari would have that sort of skill. The rents in the cloth were barely visible. It was the sort of mending skill he associated with the palace seamstresses of his youth. 

He found his sandals, surprisingly, since he'd lost them in snowdrifts several thousand feet below, and put them on, before venturing out into the snow. The frigid air bit at his healing lungs, making him cough helplessly; figures materialized out of the whirling whiteness all around him. Aoi pushed back her hood and scowled.

"What are you trying to do, warrior? Make sure Fatoum kills you?"

Jack managed to swallow the cough and pull himself up to his full height, towering over her. "I was curious," he rasped. "Tell me what you know about the secrets of the mountain."

Aoi stared at him for a long moment, then sighed. "Very well. But only if you obey the healers." She pointed back inside the tent he'd just left. Despite his desire to prove his strength and resilience, Jack was unpleasantly aware of how difficult it was to breathe, and after a minute he nodded once and ducked back inside the tent.

Aoi followed, unfastening her parka, and pushed him back down to the bed. "Warrior," she began, and then sighed. "....Jack.....you must be patient. I will tell you what I may about Fatoum, but there are some things you must find out for yourself......when you are ready."

He coughed, closing his eyes in pain. "What about the "truth" the monks spoke of? What is the power that waits at the summit?"  
Aoi sighed. "There is no magic jewel or talisman that confers power upon its bearer. Fatoum's lesson is more complicated than that."

"But if no one from the land below has ever conquered the mountain...." Jack began.

"....no one knows," Aoi finished. "The mountain monks have studied and trained all their lives to scale the mountain, and they still fail. They believe there is something tangible waiting for them at the summit."

"So there is nothing?" Jack asked, lying back against the pillows, his eyes closed. "Nothing at all?"

"I did not say that, warrior," Aoi said softly. "Fatoum does hide a secret. Few of the Akhari have ever seen the summit, and only those who have share in the secret." She paused, tormenting the fringe on the edge of his blankets with a gloved finger. "I believe, Jack, that you might convince the mountain to reveal her secret to you. It cannot be explained. No one from the plains has ever reached this high."

Jack opened his eyes and stared at her. "You think so?"

Aoi smiled a little, the tight smile of one who is not used to the expression. "I do. Now rest, samurai, and stop trying to do everything at once. The healers are amazed at how quickly you are recovering, but you are a long way from well."

Jack yawned, suppressing another fit of coughing. "As you wish," he said, managing to make it sound offhand and unimpressed. 

Aoi smiled more realistically. "Good. Now drink this and go back to sleep. Tomorrow you should be well enough to meet with the tribal elders. They can tell you more than I about the secrets of the mountain."

Jack nodded and took the cup she held out. "Do you share your secrets with everyone who makes it this high up the mountain?"

Aoi blinked. "No," she said uncertainly. "No, I can't remember anyone else ever surviving this high."

He looked at her sidelong. "But if they had, you'd tell them what you're telling me?"

"I do not know," said Aoi. "You will have to ask the elders. I am just a healer's apprentice; I do not make the decisions."

He had the feeling he'd said something wrong, but couldn't imagine what. His chest was hurting again, badly, and the tent was threatening to spin around him once more. "Aoi," he said softly. "Aoi, I'm sorry if.....if I said anything that insulted you or your culture."

She looked down for a moment, then met his gaze. "No," she said. "You did not, samurai. Rest now. Tomorrow everything will be made clear."

Jack nodded, lying back against the pillows. He closed his eyes, aware that she was still there, wondering what she was to the tribe and why she had been chosen to care for him, a stranger, an intruder into their community. During his experience as a roving warrior, he had woken up in many different places, under the care of many different people, and no one had ever captured his attention as had Aoi. He thought it had something to do with the fact that she seemed so much older than she looked, as if she'd had to go through some fairly horrible experiences herself; it made her seem more approachable, in a way, like some of the seasoned fighters he'd spoken with over his travels. 

The tent flap opened and closed, and he was alone with his thoughts. The faint muttering of fever in his mind was rising again, despite her assurances that he was recovering, and the short journey outside had exhausted him. He began to let himself relax, slowly, letting go of layers of control with the ease of long practice, and felt himself begin to fall asleep.

It was cold and white, and there was no one else in the world but him; he was alone in a world of howling whiteness, and he was freezing to death, his blood slow and thick in his veins, his robes stiff with ice and snow. He knew he had to reach the summit. That was about it; the rest of his mind had retreated into greyness, the knowledge of his growing weakness set aside as irrelevant, the memories and the fear of failure all receding into the distance. There was merely the necessity of reaching the summit. 

He began to see something other than just the moving white; something beyond it, so big it was hard to see where it began and ended. A vast dark shape reared up before him, eyeless, limbless. He reached for his sword, and was less than surprised to find it wasn't there. He wore only his kimono, sashless, blowing in the ceaseless wind; he wasn't even cold any more, hardly feeling the sting of the windblown ice crystals as they scraped against his face. There was nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, even if he'd wanted to run. He stood as tall as he could against the shadow-shape, weaponless and tiny, and said nothing at all.

The shadowshape was silent for a long moment. When at last it spoke, its voice sounded like the dim thunder of avalanches in distant valleys. 

"You challenge my mountain?" it rumbled, making Jack's bones buzz against one another.

"I wish to learn the truth it hides at the summit," he yelled into the wind. 

The shadow-shape laughed; a low, rough, thunderous laugh that shook the icicles off the ledges and did, in fact, cause some small avalanches in the local cornices. "You?" it laughed. "You, a little mortal man, born of the green valleys below, seek to learn _my _mountain's secret?"

Jack stood firm. "I am a warrior of my people," he cried. "I have fought my way here where all others have failed. Tell me what your mountain hides."

The shadow laughed again, but it was a different kind of laugh; it held a few shreds of respect. "You have done what others have failed to do," it conceded. "Perhaps you may yet reach Fatoum's summit. Let the Akhari teach you what you must know."

"Wait," Jack cried as the shadow began to fade. "Wait! I must know what it is I am trying to reach!"

The shadow's laugh rocked the mountainside, but there was nothing there but snow.


End file.
